


The Right Thing

by jamgrl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cottage in South Downs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Moving In Together, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pajamas & Sleepwear, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamgrl/pseuds/jamgrl
Summary: Moving to a cottage in the South Downs does not come without drama. This story explores Aziraphale's anxiety and tendency to second guess himself as he and Crowley's relationship becomes bit more complicated. It is a bit of a heart wrenching journey, but we come to a satisfying end, I hope!---"Aziraphale thought, maybe, if he could admit it to himself, he knew what Crowley wanted. Or at least he thought he did. But if he wasn’t fretting about Crowley’s intentions, he would have to think about how he felt himself, and that was scarier.  Was it that he wanted Crowley to want what he thought he wanted? This was all terribly confusing."





	1. The Books

**Author's Note:**

> This mostly takes place in the TV universe, but there are nods to the book.  
> I am rating this as teen because some scenes could be a bit risqué, but this is on the tame side with just some (very) light intimacy and some innuendo.

It started out as the occasional light touch at St. James Park. Crowley gently resting his arm behind Aziraphale across the back of a bench, his arm just barely grazing Aziraphale’s back. Occasionally, Aziraphale placing a feather light hand on Crowley’s knee. Once, Crowley’s thumb brushing Aziraphale’s shoulder in a light sort of caressing way. (They spent many afternoons this way, watching the ducks, bickering about silly little things like musical taste and magic tricks, discussing what adventures they might get up to, now they had all the time in the world.)

Aziraphale initiated the hand holding. They were strolling through the city one night after a particularly nice dinner, a little buzzed from red wine, hands swinging dangerously close. In a single swing, Aziraphale’s hand was gliding into Crowley’s, Crowley’s fingers responding, easily intertwining with his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It felt good to have Crowley’s hand in his, to have that energy coursing between them.

It went on like that for a while in the weeks following their avoidance of Armageddon, something unspoken between them, but tangibly there, hanging in the air.

Aziraphale didn’t know what any of it meant. Just that he liked it. And that he wanted to keep things going as they were. Best to not think too much of these things, really. 

He wondered, though, what they would do with all their time- they really had a lot of it, now that they were, well, unemployed, as it were. Aziraphale found himself more irritated than usual by the occasional customer in his shop. It all seemed silly, now. There wasn’t much reason to keep up the pretense.

 

~~~

 

Aziraphale stood again in the living room, surveying the space while the realtor shuffled some papers, hidden in the kitchen. They were in a sweet little cottage, currently full of old classic furniture. Aziraphale sensed Crowley hanging back at the entrance between the kitchen and living room. “Well? What do you think?” Aziraphale asked without turning to look back. His voice was cautious and hopeful. Crowley sauntered forward and smoothly rested his arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale tried his best to ignore this, to remain stoic, staring forward as he felt the sensation of that arm burning through his skin. “Well,” Aziraphale said, definitively, “ _I_ think it is rather lovely.”

It was then that Aziraphale felt it. A hand squeezing his shoulder and a brush of lips and light pressure on his temple. He turned to look up at Crowley, his eyes widened in surprise, but the arm and hand had left his shoulders and Crowley was already across the room, inspecting the woodwork on the built-in bookshelves above and on either side of the fireplace. 

The realtor shuffled in at that moment, packet of paperwork in hand, and pleasantly asked, “Well then, have you two got any questions for me?” Until this moment, Aziraphale had been the talkative one, chattering with her as they entered each room and enthusiastically suggesting possible room set ups. Now Aziraphale was too busy staring at Crowley to come up with a response.

Crowley turned to face the realtor, tapping his fingers against the fireplace mantle. “Are there any other parties interested in it?” he asked. This may have been this first thing he had said since they’d arrived at the place for the tour. He had spent the entire time lagging behind, hands in his pockets, infuriatingly silent.

“There are two other couples interested,” the realtor said, seriously “so if you want it, you’d best make an offer soon.” Aziraphale examined Crowley’s face, wondering if he would react to the realtor calling them a “couple”. It was a common mistake that they had shaken off many times before, but, somehow, now Aziraphale felt it mattered. He wished he could see under Crowley’s dark glasses. He was unreadable as he made his way over to the realtor, taking all the paperwork she was handing over and nodding along to her instructions for their next steps.

 

~~~

 

“Are you sure you want to give up the bookshop?” Crowley asked over tea at the nearby cafe they were occupying to discuss the cottage tour. The papers the realtor had given them were scattered across the table between them. Aziraphale was tapping the top of his teacup lightly with a spoon, considering. There was a sunroom, perfect for Crowley’s plants, a cozy fireplace, and plenty of bookshelves, though they would have to squeeze some more bookshelves into the two bedrooms, and then there still might not be space for all of Aziraphale’s books. But then, he really loved the place, and he really needed to get out of London.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “I will have to find something to do with the books, but I am certain I don’t want to keep running the shop.”

“Well then,” responded Crowley, leaning back in his chair, arm slung over the back of it “that settles it. We’d better make an offer.”

Aziraphale suddenly became overcome with anxiety. 

“Are you _sure_?” 

“Well, can’t let those _other_ people have it, can we? You heard the woman. We’d better make an offer soon.” 

“Yes, but, well, are _you_ sure? Giving up your flat? Leaving the city? This place isn’t quite as stylish, the night life, I should think—"

“Well there’s not much use having a flat in London if I’m all alone up there, is there?” Crowley interrupted. “Nah, we’d best stick together, I think.”

Aziraphale was pleased with this response and happily finished the bit of cake in front of him. He couldn’t really envision being in that cottage without Crowley.

 

~~~

 

Several weeks had passed and Aziraphale still hadn’t packed a single book. He had a sign on the bookshop door, declaring its permanent closure and indicating the space for sale. He had open moving boxes all over the floor between stacks of books he had pulled from the shelves, teetering all around, in both the front and back rooms. He had managed to fill a box or two of his other possessions, tossing things in here and there, but the books... He would have to give up some of them, but he couldn’t bear to choose. How could he let any of them go? He had been collecting them for so long. When they had placed the offer, he had been so excited, daydreaming about that cottage in the South Downs. But now that it was becoming real...?

At this moment, Aziraphale was sitting on the floor in his shop’s back room, surrounded by towers of dusty books, defeated, a book in each hand. He had spent the entire day brooding over his book piles, making little to no progress, and now the evening was upon him. What was he thinking, moving to a little cottage? He couldn’t possibly fit all his books. And his collection was the most important thing he had, wasn’t it? Maybe this was all too much. What were they doing, he and Crowley?  Why did _Crowley_ want to move to a little cottage in the South Downs? Why did Crowley want to move somewhere with _him_. 

He had wanted him to run away with him. When Armageddon was imminent, he had wanted Aziraphale run away to the stars with him. Everything after that happened so fast that there wasn’t much time for Aziraphale to process it. Anyways, Crowley was being emotional. Right?

But that moment in the cottage— was that a kiss? He had felt certain of it then, but now he wasn’t so sure. It could have been anything. An accidental head bump!

Why was Crowley so hard to read?

Except, maybe he wasn’t so hard to read. Aziraphale thought, maybe, if he could admit it to himself, he knew what Crowley wanted. Or at least he thought he did. But if he wasn’t fretting about Crowley’s intentions, he would have to think about how he felt himself, and that was scarier.  Was it that he wanted Crowley to want what he thought he wanted? This was all terribly confusing.

The bell at the front entrance to the shop rang as someone opened the door. “Sorry, but we are very much closed, at the mo—" Aziraphale was shouting from his position on the floor, “Oh, it’s you, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed, looking at his books again. 

“What, in the name of all that is unholy, is going on here?” said Crowley, weaving his way through the clouds of dust and teetering books. 

“I’m packing!” Aziraphale replied indignantly.

“I don’t see anything in any of these boxes.”

“I’ve got two boxes packed! Over there in the corner!”

“Right.” Crowley had just managed to make his way into the back room and in front of Aziraphale. “Well take a break. I’ve got a present!” He brandished a bottle of rum barrel-aged merlot.

“I don’t know. I’ve got a ways to go.” Aziraphale said, looking at his surrounding mess dejectedly.

“C’ _mon_! Have some wine with me and then I’ll help you. You need to relax. You look stressed as anything.” Aziraphale didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t just the packing stressing him. But a glass of merlot did sound nice.

Crowley had already poured two glasses and was draining one of them. He put his own glass down after drinking half of it, then helped Aziraphale up to his feet, handing him the other glass. Aziraphale took it gladly. The taste of wine on his lips did begin to relax him a bit. And Crowley being there, well, it was just nice being with him. He felt a warmth bubbling up in his chest as he watched Crowley claim a perch on an arm of the couch.

“How’s your packing going?” Aziraphale asked, conversationally.

“Not much to pack, really.” It was true that Crowley didn’t have much in the way of possessions. “S’pose I more just need to decide what furniture I want to keep.”

“Well, I should think you would want to keep all your television equipment for the living room,” –even though he was questioning the entire move to himself not 5 minutes ago, he still had a plan for the place– “and you’ll want to keep all your bedroom furniture, of course, and then I suppose the other bedroom could be a bit of a study, for both of us. I think we could fit both desks in, though, I suppose I don’t need a desk anymore, do I?”

“Just one bed, then?” Crowley asked, giving him a teasing wink. Aziraphale felt his face flush. 

His answer rushed out, “Well, there’s no reason to keep mine, as I don’t ever use it! I’m not sure why I even have it. I think it must have come with the shop. All lumpy. I’m sure yours is infinitely better.”

“Alright, then. If you ever decide to take a nap, you can use it,” he said, flopping onto the couch. “Think I’ll keep this couch. Softer than mine.” He was finishing his second glass of wine already. Aziraphale refilled his own glass and sat primly on his armchair, after first delicately removing the books that had been piled on top. They sat in a bit of an awkward silence, each enjoying the wine, Aziraphale quietly resuming his thoughts and worries. After a while, Crowley broke the silence. He was sitting up now, eyeing one of the piles of books suspiciously, his sunglasses now strewn on the coffee table. “Whyd’yu ‘ave so many bibles? Reliving the good ol’ days?” He had to be on his third or fourth glass by now.

“They’re misprints. I think they’re funny. Quite the collector’s items, I’ll have you know.” He was getting a bit defensive.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, only askin’. No need to get in a tizzy.” He looked into his wine glass, thoughtful for a moment before asking, without looking up, “Why haven’t you got any these books packed?”

Aziraphale’s worry camped on his face as he tried to answer. “I- um- well- I’m still deciding what to keep, but I can’t bear to choose, and, and, I’ve had this shop for ages and, well, oh, I don’t know, it’s all quite a lot,” he finished lamely.

“Whyd’yu gotter choose? Lo’s o’ space, innit? Two rooms an’ all? And the livin’ and the sunroom?”

“Well, maybe so,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he was “but, still, there’s a lot of change upon us, and, I, well, this whole thing is very—" his eyes darted around the room in a panic.

“Angel—" He was leaning forward now, piercing Aziraphale with those golden eyes. “Shall I remind you that the cottage was your idea?” Crowley was searching Aziraphale’s face. He seemed stone cold sober now.

“Yes, yes, I know, it’s just now I’m wondering if, if—" He couldn’t look at him. “If it’s the right thing,” he said, concentrating on the well-worn carpet of his shop.

“Well it’s a little late now!” Crowley exclaimed, exasperated, falling back into the couch. There was a tense silence during which they didn’t look at each other. What felt like a century of silence passed between them. Crowley spoke again, softer now. “Look—" he was tapping his thumb against his empty glass, speaking carefully, “if you don’t want to go through with it, I mean, giving up your bookshop and all—" he paused, not sure where to go with his point and looking around the room for more words.

“It’s not just the books,” Aziraphale blurted. “It’s the whole thing!”

“Oh.”

Crowley had a pained and surprised expression now, reminiscent of that day before Armageddon when Aziraphale had rejected him at the bandstand. Aziraphale would have preferred not to have been reminded of that particular moment. “Right. I’ll— I’ll be going then.” He stood up slowly, looking for a place to put his empty glass.

“No, no! Please stay! I want you here!” Aziraphale pleaded.

“Aziraphale.” He took a deep breath. He turned to face him now, piercing him again with those intense eyes. “Aziraphale. I _really_ would like to stay with you. Wherever you are. I’d _like_ to move to this cottage with you. But,” running a hand nervously through his hair, “I have to know where we stand.” This is exactly what Aziraphale had been dreading. Because, he didn’t know how he felt, and he really didn’t want to have to decide. All he could do was remain silent. “Right.” Crowley left the bookshop at that moment, leaving the wine glass, the empty bottle, and a shattered angel behind.


	2. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of our journey to the cottage in South Downs. (Old TV Show Announcer Voice) Will Crowley answer Aziraphale's calls? Will Aziraphale finally come to terms with his feelings? Find out on this episode of--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the slightly risqué bits come in

The morning light was slithering through the closed blinds of the bookshop’s back room windows and Aziraphale was still in the very same spot, now slouched in his armchair, gazing at the left behind glass and bottle. To have said that last night had not gone well would have been an understatement.

He had to do something. Call Crowley. A night ruminating in that armchair and Aziraphale still wasn’t any closer to having something to say to him, but he also couldn’t leave things as they were. Crowley was, well— everything. 

Maybe he could just pretend last night never happened. Why had he had to go and complicate things? There was a cottage in South Downs signed in his and Crowley’s names; he really ought to just stick to his original plan. He could figure out that other feelings stuff later.  Anyway, his shop felt dreary now that he wasn’t on blessing duty and Crowley would certainly be a fun roommate. And, really, the thought of not being with Crowley– that was worse than Aziraphale’s fear of his own feelings. 

He would call Crowley. He could ask him to come over to help with the books! He had said he would help. Yes, this would show Crowley that it was just a little cold feet and that he was ready to move forward. Determination came over him with these thoughts.

Aziraphale sprang into action, finding the bookshop’s telephone. He punched the numbers in for Crowley’s mobile phone and put the telephone receiver to his ear. 

Straight to voicemail. 

Aziraphale tried to ignore the pang of hurt. Crowley must have deliberately turned it off. Even though the charger was still in the packaging, somewhere in one of Crowley’s drawers, the phone never ran out of battery.

Aziraphale tried to give himself some encouragement. _There’s another phone_ , he thought. _He’ll have to pick up eventually_. It’s not as if he would have unplugged his landline. No, surely not. Aziraphale punched in the second number, hoping beyond hope to hear ringing. When he heard the first ring, he let out a breath of relief. He waited patiently as the phone rang until Crowley’s antique ansaphone picked up. “ _Hello, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style_.” Well, at least he could leave a message.

In the calmest voice he could muster: “Hello there, Crowley. This is Aziraphale. I was just wondering if you would still like to come to my shop to help me pack the books. I mean, really, leaving so abruptly like that! Well, not to say that, well. Anywho, I am ready to pack my books and it would go a great deal faster, and we could get lunch, you know, wherever you want, and I thought, perhaps—" 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley had picked up the phone. He was on the line. Aziraphale’s heart was pounding out of his chest and he was trying to control his breathing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Crowley finally said something else. “What in– in whoever’s name– is going on?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said slowly.

“I _mean_ ,” Crowley huffed. “I _mean,_ what have we been doing? Gallivanting around London? Going for strolls? Holding hands, buying cottages...?”

“Well, we are—" but Aziraphale didn’t know what. He wasn’t expecting this. He had been hoping Crowley would be relieved by his call and would jump to come on over, all forgotten and forgiven. Crowley was always showing up, unexpectedly, despite all kinds of slights against his demonic nature which Aziraphale had hurled at him through the centuries... but now... his thought was interrupted.

“Aziraphale.” Pained patience. “What is it that _you want_? I thought, I mean, I’ve been following—" a deep breath. “I’m getting quite a few mixed signals here. I just want a bit of...”

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale admitted, cutting him off.

“Afraid?” He sounded puzzled. “C’mon, _Angel_ ,” trying to make a joke of it, “I’m only a _little_ scaly.” 

No response.

“Angel. You know I would never hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s not that, I know _that_. You were never a very good demon, were you?” Aziraphale teased.

“Oh, _low blow_.”

Aziraphale chuckled at this. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m afraid of,” he took a deep breath, drawing up courage, “Well, I’m afraid of my own feelings, only I don’t know what those are– I want to be around you and, well, we’re on our own now, aren’t we? But it’s not just that, I want to be _with you_ , only I don’t know what that means just yet, and I really don’t know what to tell you, all of this is very confusing and happening very fast, and—"

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright! Fine! Let’s focus on the packing now. We can figure out that other stuff later. We can—"

“We?”

“Yes. I mean, right now we agree that we want to move to this bloody cottage, yeah? So, if you would stop fussing, I can go pack your books for you and we can just get _on_ with it. Then, after all that, whenever the spirit touches you or whatever, we can, you know, figure that other stuff out. Together.”

“Right then.”

“Right.” Crowley hung up then and arrived at the bookshop shortly thereafter.

(Crowley didn’t actually physically pack any books. He is a demon, after all. But Aziraphale always liked it when Crowley performed the miracles.)

 

~~~

 

Things felt somewhat normal after that. There was still something hanging in the air between them, but Crowley seemed to be behaving extra cautiously with him (there was no touching, now). Still, they were managing to fall into their usual rhythm. Anyways, they had a monumental task to focus on.

They had just managed to shove most of the books somewhere in the cottage. The kitchen cabinets proved a helpful book space, since they only needed the one for mugs and wine glasses. It felt strange, not returning to the bookshop for the night. There were still boxes to unpack, but at least they had all the furniture in place.

“Fancy a spot of telly?” Aziraphale asked Crowley as the sky was beginning to darken outside the cottage windows. “I think I might even put on my pajamas!” He exclaimed, excitedly, as the idea struck him. He had a set of pinstripe pajamas that he only wore when he wanted to be extra comfy– he didn’t sleep, after all. But the thought of a cozy spot of telly in pajamas, maybe some cocoa, felt like just the right thing at this moment. 

“Telly it is. And, if you’re in pajamas, it’s only fair that I change, too.” Crowley sounded a bit mischievous and teasing.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine. Each of us to our respective rooms, and then we meet back in the living room,” Aziraphale said, in a businesslike manner. Aziraphale’s “room” was the second bedroom they had set up as a study. He would eventually be moving his clothes into that closet. It had the two desks and several bookshelves shoved in it now, with several boxes around the room. Aziraphale had to fish his pajamas out of a still packed suitcase. Finally, with pajamas and slippers carefully donned, he made his way back towards the living room. 

Crowley was already lounging on the couch, wearing just a gray t-shirt and dark red boxers, no sunglasses on. 

“Those are your pajamas?” Aziraphale asked incredulously from the bottom of the narrow stairway.

“Do I look like I wear pinstripe pajamas? This is what I have, Angel, it’s not a come on,” he sounded a bit irritated and maybe even a tad pouty.

“Well, alright then.” Aziraphale made his way to the middle of the living room, cocoa forgotten, standing stiffly and trying to decide where to sit. There was his armchair, the old standby, and then there was on the couch next to Crowley. Crowley there, just casually in a t-shirt and boxers (both of which looked incredibly soft), one arm rested across the couch’s back. He noticed Crowley’s boxers had tiny musical notes all over them, which was positively delightful. Aziraphale could, if he wanted to, sit there and lean into that outstretched arm...

“What did you want to watch?” This rose him from his reverie.

“Well,” looking away, a bit embarrassed. Luckily Crowley hadn’t seemed to notice his gaze. “There’s that delightful baking show, I mean, if that’s not too boring for you...”

“You only like that show because you fancy Paul Hollywood!” Crowley accused, playfully.

“What?! That is not even remotely true!” Aziraphale responded indignantly. “You know I have an appreciation for baked goods. And the show really is the best of humanity, I think. Besides,” he added cheekily, “I wouldn’t say that _Paul Hollywood_ is my type.” 

“Oh?” Crowley’s eyes widened in amused curiosity. “What is your ‘type’ then?” Crowley had mischief in his eyes.

“Well if you must know, I prefer more of a tall, dark and handsome type fellow,” Aziraphale said airily, putting his shoulders back in a show of loftiness.

“Oh, so the _host_? That emo bloke?” Crowley asked, chaffingly.

“What? _No!_   I don’t fancy anyone on the show!” He responded huffily. “I was thinking of a rather specific person, actually.”

“Whatever you say, Angel.”

“Crowley,” he said, finally making a choice and sitting down on the couch to face the demon.

Crowley must not have been expecting this because he jolted straight up into a sitting position, snatching his arm from the back of the couch and folding his hands tightly in his lap, wide eyes looking forward.

Aziraphale gently placed his own hands over Crowley’s. “I’m really glad we’re here,” he said, gently. Crowley relaxed a bit at this. They were quiet, sitting in this way for a moment.

“Me, too,” Crowley softly responded, looking at their hands, after what felt like eons. And then Crowley turned his face to look at Aziraphale with what could only be interpreted as sad, longing eyes and Aziraphale surprised even himself by lifting his hands to clasp Crowley’s face and kiss him right on the mouth. 

The kiss was electric. Aziraphale didn’t know anything could feel this way. Crowley’s lips had responded eagerly, hungrily, and soon Crowley was clutching Aziraphale’s pajama shirt tightly, pulling him closer. Crowley’s lips were warm and soft. Eager, but surprisingly tender. Aziraphale’s hands slid to Crowley’s back, gliding down the soft fabric of his shirt.  And then he could feel Crowley’s heavenly tongue just peaking in his mouth, hesitant— Aziraphale felt one of his shirt buttons come undone and he parted from Crowley rather unceremoniously, gently prying Crowley’s hands from his pajama shirt.

“Well, that’s rather enough of that for the moment,” he said, filled with embarrassment and feeling the blood rushing to his face. He looked away, redoing the button, uncertain of what to do now.

Crowley cleared his throat nervously. “Well, shall we watch the show, then?” He asked, awkwardly.

“Yes, yes, of course, the show!” Aziraphale reached for the remote hurriedly to turn on the television and search for the show on Crowley’s streaming service. 

Once the show was playing, they were able to relax, Crowley lobbing critical commentary at the contestants and Aziraphale worrying aloud about each of their bakes, hoping they would all come out well and that the bakers wouldn’t become too stressed. He wished no one had to leave at the end of each episode. Shortly, the angel and demon were invested only in the show, deliberating together about who they thought would receive star baker or a famed Hollywood Handshake.

After two episodes, it was getting rather late and they decided it was enough television for the night.

“Shall we go to bed, then?” Crowley asked, casually. Aziraphale sputtered in response. “I just meant sleeping!” Crowley blurted, a flush filling his cheeks.

“Oh,” Aziraphale responded in relief. “Well, I don’t usually sleep, if you recall.” Aziraphale focused on smoothing his pajamas.

“Right. Well, I rather like sleep. I think I’ll head up, now.” He jumped up rather swiftly.

“Alright.”

Pausing before he left, he turned to look at Aziraphale, one hand nervously running through his hair. “You are welcome to join me. If you like.” Crowley said this timidly.

Aziraphale just gave a small nod in response. 

“Right. Well, good night,” Crowley said in a rush, escaping up the steps and disappearing. 

Aziraphale sat in wonderment for a while, thinking about what had just happened. He had not been expecting to do something even remotely like that. He was in a bit of shock. Nervous thoughts were buzzing around in his head. He had just crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

It had been nice, though.

Not just nice, it had been thrilling.

Now Aziraphale was becoming curious about the bed. He tiptoed up the steps and slipped his head around the door, which had been left ajar, just to have a peak. The stylish bed with a modern metal frame and a shiny graphite gray comforter looked out of place in the old-fashioned cottage. Crowley already looked asleep, but his body was skewed towards one side of the bed, as if he was leaving the other side available. 

The angel considered for a moment, then felt a wave of boldness come over him. He gently pushed the door open further, trying his best to avoid any creaking, and slipped into the room, as quietly as he could. He took off his slippers and placed them neatly by the bed, and then, carefully, he lifted the covers on the available side and slowly edged his way into the satin sheets and under the covers.

Crowley stirred and blinked bleary eyes at Aziraphale. “Angel!” He exclaimed. He sounded the way he did when he was drunk, voice heavy and thick. “You’re here!”

“Yes. I thought, er, why not give it the old college try, eh?” Aziraphale said, trying to sound bright and confident, though he was certain his shakiness had come through his voice.

“Good, good. Sweet dreams, Angel,” he said, his voice thick with sleep as he flopped onto his stomach.

“Oh. Thank you.” Aziraphale was touched by this little show of sweetness. As he always was when Crowley surprised him with some gesture, small or sweeping.

“I love you, Angel,” Crowley said into his pillow, slipping away already into a heavy sleep.

“I love you, too, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Though he wasn’t sure Crowley had heard it. That was all right, though, because it was really him finally admitting the fact to himself. He could tell Crowley in the morning.

And with that, an angel, lying next to a demon, of all things, for the first time, went to sleep. And his dreams _were_ sweet.

 

~~~

 

Aziraphale woke up the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had ever felt. He rolled on his side to see Crowley splayed out next to him, twisted in the covers and still sound asleep. Aziraphale watched him for a while, fascinated by how vulnerable he looked there. 

Eventually, he got bored laying there and padded down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

The whistling of the kettle must have woken Crowley because that’s when he ambled down the stairs with sleep fogged eyes and wildly rumpled hair. He was rumpling his hair further with his hand and yawning as he made his way into the kitchen. Aziraphale had opened the one cabinet not stuffed with books to attempt to retrieve two teacups and was struggling to reach them. Crowley stepped behind him and put one hand on his waist as he reached over him to grab the teacups, passing them one by one to Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. Aziraphale savored the feeling of that hand on his waist and that chest lightly leaning into his back, warm breath landing in his hair, as he placed the teacups on the counter. 

After placing the second teacup down, Aziraphale caught Crowley’s arm, lightly kissing it before wrapping it around himself, pulling Crowley closer. Crowley wrapped his other arm around him, and they stood like that for a moment, Crowley’s face buried in Aziraphale’s hair. This time it was unmistakable: a firm, warm kiss on the back of his head. Aziraphale flushed but allowed himself to feel delighted by it.

Then Aziraphale felt himself being spun around, strong hands grasping his upper arms. He was met with a flurry of kisses, gentle as can be, all over his face and neck. All he could do was giggle in pleasure, feeling a tingling sensation where those lips touched him.

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale thought. _This is positively the right thing._

**Author's Note:**

> Update: If you enjoyed this fic and enjoy Aziraphale POV, you may enjoy my new Mesopotamia fic, [ The Constellation of Crawly ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385755).
> 
> Update 2: Guys, when I wrote this, I had no idea Micheal Sheen had been on a celebrity episode of the Great British Bake Off. This gives me so much delight and adds so much color to the Great British Bake Off reference in this work. Please enjoy this [ video ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DHNxuHm6i2s) I came across on YouTube entirely by accident.


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